


Easy like Sunday Morning

by lbmisscharlie



Series: No Mushrooms Please [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Bromance, Gen, epic!friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=37014381#t37014381">this</a> prompt at the kinkmeme:<i> John and Sherlock and their lazy, dysfunctional Sunday mornings in bed.</i> In which Sherlock has difficulty sleeping and John makes lots of toast. Shameless fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy like Sunday Morning

It’s a routine. Or, well, almost a routine. Can something be said to be routine if it only happens very occasionally, when there’s no case on, when a case has wrapped up recently enough that Sherlock is not yet bored and still catching up on pesky human necessities like food and sleep? Well, whatever it is, it happens with some irregularity and is almost never exactly the same, yet it feels like they’ve been settled like this, comfortable and easy, for eternity.

What happens is this: if, by some rare moon alignment, a case just happens to end on a Saturday (or perhaps a Friday, if the case had taken long enough and Sherlock hasn’t slept in days) and had ended well (Sherlock’s definition: solving the puzzle; Lestrade’s: apprehending the criminal; John’s: no broken bones and plenty of Chinese takeaway at the end), John will almost invariably wake up with a consulting detective in his bed on Sunday.

Now, nothing like that. He was surprised the first time it happened, too, the dip of the bed and a fleeting touch of cold feet startling him out of (finally restful, much deserved) sleep sometime around three in the morning. He’d protested, weakly, and Sherlock had muttered something about it being too cold in his room to sleep, and in his desire to get back to sleep he’d just rolled his eyes and made a bit more room. When he’d woken five hours later, the duvet was thrown back and he could hear Sherlock knocking around in the kitchen below.

It didn’t happen again until the next time a case ended on Saturday, four weeks later. Again, in the wee hours of the morning, John awoke to Sherlock slipping under the covers and telling him to go back to sleep. He yawned and complied; when he woke again, sun filtering in through the blinds, Sherlock was still next to him, sleeping more peacefully than John had ever seen him. Then again, the only time John saw Sherlock sleep was quick kips on the sofa when his body collapsed, demanding a few hours’ respite, or when he napped out of some spiteful sense of boredom between cases. In either case, Sherlock asleep tended to maintain an air of perturbed resentfulness, as if even dead to the world he thought he should be above such human frailties.

John softly edged himself out of bed. Sherlock shifted with a soft sigh but didn’t wake. After using the toilet, John quietly made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and popped some bread in the toaster. A few minutes later he made his way back upstairs with two mugs of tea held in one fist and a plate of toast with jam in the other. He edged open the door and noticed Sherlock beginning to stir, rubbing the back of his forearm across his blinking eyes like a child coming out of a dream. He accepted his tea and portion of toast without protest and actually consumed it all before jumping out of bed and off to some experiment or another.

John gradually, though, began his own little experiment. If Sherlock would sleep and eat – difficult tasks on the best of days – on those Sunday mornings, perhaps a bit more might not go amiss? He added eggs to the toast next time, then bacon, and the fifth Sunday he brought up the newspaper under his arm and Sherlock’s laptop in one hand with the breakfast plate stacked on top. From then, their Sunday mornings stretch longer as they sit side-by-side in John’s bed, munching off of a shared plate, the rustle of newspaper and clicking of laptop keys the only noises. Sometimes John will share an interesting murder or burglary (he knows better than to try and tell Sherlock about current affairs, he just scoffs and pointedly ignores John until he stops talking) and sometimes Sherlock will read him a particularly interesting – or, more frequently, inane – email sent through his website. John will listen to Sherlock fire off conclusions based on nothing more than a few lines of text and marvel (he does marvel, every time).

John started to put the pieces together, after a few occurrences. Almost every other day, Sherlock was up and awake long before him, almost manic in his odd morning routine, but on days after the wrap-up to a case he seemed just slightly more irritable. Like he had tried to catch up on hours spent puzzling, experimenting, tracking when he should have been sleeping, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Except, of course, for the Sundays. Saturday evenings after a case he goes to sleep in his own bed – John says goodnight, watches him go off to his room – but at some point, for some reason, awakens. In either desperation or brilliance he had invaded John’s bed and managed to sleep through the rest of the night. Sundays, John realized, are the only days he leaves off with the alarm clock and lets himself have a lie-in. Every other day, even without a regular job, he’s up at half six with military precision. So on the Sundays, Sherlock curls next to him and they REM cycle together.

On the Sundays, Sherlock wakes with sleepy smiles, sits next to John and eats eggs and toast, elbows bumping, types away a mile a minute while John reads the newspaper, and for the rest of the day he’s content.  



End file.
